


The Road to Hell

by inoubliable



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Bank Robbery, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Explicit Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prison, Slow Build, heavily inspired by Den of Thieves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-03-10 12:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoubliable/pseuds/inoubliable
Summary: It starts with an empty fridge. It starts with a big redpast duestamp on the bills that pile up on the kitchen counter. It starts with the itch Beverly can feel underneath her skin, constant and all-consuming, the buzzing ache of a past life.It starts when Richie Tozier gets out of prison.





	1. Beverly

**Author's Note:**

> "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

She’s been waiting for almost an hour.

It’s cold out. Her car is a piece of shit and the heat doesn’t work; she feels the chill even through her parka and fur-lined gloves. She wonders if they’ll give him a coat, when he’s released. He was arrested in the summer. He was wearing shredded denim shorts that fell limply to his knobby knees and a yellow-flowered Hawaiian shirt. His favorite shirt. His _lucky_ shirt. She’ll never forget it.

She’s not supposed to be here. She lied to Ben, but that was only because she had to. Ben wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t know about Richie. No one in her New Life knows about Richie.

She had never intended to change that, but then Richie had called.

_You have a collect call from Richie Tozier, an inmate at the Maine State Prison._

Beverly had almost, _almost_ managed to hang up the phone.

When the call patched through, Richie had breathed her name, a gasp of barely-there noise in her ear. And just like that, her Old Life had come flooding back. Suddenly, she was twenty-six years old again, flush with cash and adrenaline, ready and willing to follow Richie wherever he led her.

She’s going to be the one leading Richie, now. Of all the weird things that have happened over the past eight years, that is probably the weirdest.

A loud, grating buzz makes her jump. In the rearview mirror, she watches the heavy front gate slide slowly open. She sees a guard first, tall and uniformed with a pistol strapped securely to his hip. He’s escorting someone who is equally tall but unarmed, head down, curly dark hair obscuring much of his face.

It’s Richie.

She climbs out of the car. Her hands are shaking. It’s not because of the cold.

He’s not wearing his lucky shirt.

His sweatpants and sweatshirt are both gray, but not nearly the same shade. The shirt says _Maine State Prison_ in bold navy lettering, like he’s some sort of prison mascot. He’s very pale. His face is a little thinner, his cheekbones stark. When he looks up, he’s not smiling.

Beverly is struck by how much he looks like the Richie Tozier she knew eight years ago.

He sees her and stops on the curbside. She leans up against the side of the car, grasping the door handle, just for something to do with her hands. They stare at each other for a long, long moment, and then Richie’s blank expression splits into a slow smile. His teeth are still very crooked.

She doesn’t realize she’s running until her body collides with his. His arms fit around her waist, surprisingly strong. He lifts her off the ground and spins her in a fast circle, then puts her down and frames her face with his big hands. “Beverly, Bev,” he says, over and over, and kisses her temple, her forehead. His lips are very dry, but her cheeks are somehow wet.

She’s crying.

“I missed you,” she tells him, her voice wavering badly, and it’s _true_. She didn’t realize how much until this moment, but she knows now. She missed Richie from a place deep inside, a place she didn’t even realize was there; she missed Richie from her _soul_.

He doesn’t say it back, but he doesn’t have to. She feels it in the hands that fist in the back of her shirt, in the cracked-open way he pushes his face into her hair.

“Let’s go home,” she says quietly against his chest. She does not miss the overwhelmed shudder he gives, or the way he swipes his knuckles across his eyes when they finally pull apart.

“Can we get food first?” he asks, taking her hand. He lets her lead him to the car, their shoulders brushing, their fingers tightly laced. “I could eat sixteen Big Macs right now, I swear to God.”

She lets go of his hand just long enough to start the car and ease it out of the parking lot. “Don’t they feed you in prison?” she laughs.

“Three times a day,” Richie says brightly. “But you know how my stomach gets. I didn’t eat for days before…”

He trails off. _Before._ It’s such a dangerous word when it comes to them.

She quickly changes the subject. “Want a cigarette?”

Richie gives a moan that is positively pornographic. “God, yes.”

She gestures at her purse where it’s lying on the floorboard at his feet. He tugs it onto his lap and paws through it, not at all squeamish about personal property. Richie never had a problem rifling through her things. He was both endlessly nosy and constantly bored.

He plucks a cigarette from the half-empty pack he finds and fishes out a lighter, flicking the wheel with his thumb. It’s almost out of fluid and takes him several tries to ignite. Beverly laughs at the truly impressive string of curses Richie mutters under his breath until he finally gets the cigarette lit.

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Richie sighs after his first deep inhale, releasing a long stream of smoke. “I never thought menthol would make me so happy.”

She glances at him. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted back against the seat. He looks absolutely blissful. “Weren’t you allowed to smoke?” she asks.

“Sure,” he says, cracking open an eye. “If the guards weren’t watching. And if you were willing to pay fifty bucks a pack.”

She whistles. “Jesus.”

“Yeah.” He takes another puff off the cigarette, then cranks down the window just long enough to flick the ash off the end. “Christ, it’s fucking cold.”

“Tell me about it,” she says. “My nipples could cut glass right now.”

Richie laughs sharply, like it’s startled out of him. “You haven’t changed at all,” he says, sounding very pleased about it.

“Did you expect me to?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I don’t know what I expected,” he admits. There’s a long pause, and then he says, very quietly, “I didn’t really think you’d show.”

Beverly very stubbornly does not wince. His doubt is hurtful, but fair. It’s not like she has done anything to maintain his trust. She hasn’t talked to him once in eight years.

In her defense, that was his idea. All of the detectives knew he didn’t rob that bank by himself. There were three people on all of the security footage. Richie wasn’t dumb enough to think that they weren’t monitoring his visits and phone calls just because they had pinned him for everything.

It’s stupid that she’s the one picking him up, but she figures she owes him this, at least. Besides, it’s not like he has anyone else. It was always just them, Richie and Beverly and…

“How’s Bill?” Richie asks, like he knows exactly what she’s thinking.

She reaches out and snags the cigarette from him. “I don’t know,” she says, and takes a long drag. “I haven’t talked to him in years,” she tells him on the exhale.

Richie hums. He stares out of the window for awhile, and Beverly figures that’s the end of the conversation.

But then he asks, “Did you go?” so quietly she nearly misses it. “To the funeral?”

Beverly looks at him, but his eyes are still stubbornly trained on the passing scenery. She licks her lips, starts to say something, stops. Eight years has done nothing to make this conversation easier.

“No,” she manages, finally. “I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

Richie nods. “Probably smart,” he says, but he sounds kind of choked up. He clears his throat. She doesn’t miss the way he rubs at his eyes.

“I miss him,” Beverly says, mostly because it’s something she has never said out loud. Richie makes a sound that might be a laugh but is closer to a sob.

“You and me both.” He steals the cigarette back and takes the last few puffs. “Here’s to you, Georgie Denbrough,” he mutters, and flicks the butt out of the window.

She’s ashamed to admit that she hasn’t talked about Georgie in years. The sound of his name makes her hands clench up tight on the steering wheel. She thinks about his laugh, the gap between his front teeth, the bullet in his chest.

She wonders if Richie feels as guilty as she does. She wonders if he thinks eight years in prison was enough of a punishment, or if he’s like her, if he’s going to spend the rest of his life making up for it.

She wonders if Bill has forgiven them. She wonders if Bill has forgiven himself.

Richie grabs for her hand. “Beverly,” he says. His voice is very serious.

She glances at him. “Yes?”

His huge, dark eyes stare at her unblinkingly. “There’s a McDonald’s up ahead.”

She can’t help it; she laughs. It only sounds a little watery. “You were serious about sixteen Big Macs?”

Richie grins. “I’ll settle for two.”

And just like that, the tension shatters. It’s hard to be haunted by her demons when Richie is in her passenger seat, beautiful and wild and real, better and scarier than anything inside her head.

“Okay,” she says, flicking on her turn signal.

She has never been very good at telling Richie Tozier no.


	2. Richie

The apartment Beverly takes him to is nicer than he expects.

The living room is large, with a huge west-facing window on the far wall. Mid-afternoon sunlight filters through it, gleaming off the polished dark wood floor. The walls are freshly painted and unmarked, with a few tasteful decorations hung perfectly straight. Richie knows Beverly can be a bit of a perfectionist, but this is excessive. The place is spotless and sophisticated.

It smells like money. Richie knows exactly what that smells like.

“You rob another bank while I was gone?” he asks, only half-joking. There’s an ornate picture frame on the side table, and he picks it up. It’s a photo of Beverly and an unfamiliar man, her arm around his waist, his arm across her shoulders. They’re outside somewhere. Behind them, the leaves are orange and brown and gold. They’re both smiling.

She takes the frame out of his hands and stares at him seriously. She’s just as pretty in person as she is in the picture, but much more severe. “Rule number one,” she says. “Don’t talk about that.”

He shrugs agreeably. “Sure.” His eyes fall to her hands, clasped firmly around the frame, a delicate diamond ring on her fourth finger. It’s not the first time he’s noticed it. “I’m guessing future hubby doesn’t know about me.”

The way she flushes pink tells him everything he needs to know.

“I was going to tell him,” she says, not very convincingly.

Richie crosses the room to lie down across her butter-soft leather couch. “So what’s your game plan?” he asks, softly mocking. “Are you just gonna jump out and yell surprise when he comes home to find a convicted felon in his living room?”

“He’s out of town,” she says distractedly. “Take your shoes off, they’re disgusting.”

He rolls his eyes but toes them off without standing. They fall to the floor with two loud thumps. She watches their descent, probably mourning her pristine hardwood floors.

“So I’m the side piece,” Richie says, folding his arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. “Just a little bit of action before the big day.”

He doesn’t have to look to know Beverly is glaring at him. “The only action you’re going to get is my fist in your face if you don’t get your gross ass off my couch.” He lifts his head. She points a finger down the hall. “Shower’s that way.”

“If you want me naked, all you have to do is ask,” Richie tells her, smirking, and laughs at the murderous look on her face. He holds his hands up in surrender, sitting up. “Fine, I’m going.” He stands, stripping out of his sweatshirt and tossing it at her with a wink. “Feel free to join me.”

Beverly pinches her nose like she’s staving off a headache. Richie’s laugh echoes all the way down the hall.

He takes an extra long shower, just because he can. He washes his hair and his body in under five minutes out of habit and then just stands under the spray until it runs cold. He climbs out, towels off, and then swipes a hand across the fogged up mirror to look at himself. He looks, admittedly, like shit. The shower helped, but he’s still too thin and his hair is far too long. He wonders if Beverly will cut it for him. She used to do that, when they were kids.

He realizes he doesn’t have any clean clothes to put on. He goes to find Beverly in the hopes she has something for him.

She’s still in the living room, talking quietly into her cell phone.

“I thought you said two weeks,” she’s saying. There’s a pause. “That’s great. I can’t wait to see you.” Another pause, longer this time. “I miss you, too. It’s been lonely here without you.” She looks up then and sees Richie in the doorway, standing shirtless with only a towel around his hips. Her expression does something interesting, like she’s caught between guilt and annoyance. “I love you, too,” she says into the phone, not taking her eyes off Richie. “I’ll see you soon.”

She hangs up, placing her phone down heavily on the glass coffee table. It makes a loud, jarring noise in the otherwise silent apartment.

“Was that future hubby?” Richie asks, though he doesn’t really need to.

“His name is Ben,” she says, and then puts her face in her hands. “This is a mess,” she mumbles through her fingers.

Richie laughs, a little nervously. He didn’t know what he expected things to be like between him and Beverly after eight years, but he certainly didn’t think it would be like this. “Come on,” he says. “It’s not like you’re cheating on him. It’s just me.”

Beverly lifts her head and stares at him without expression. “It’s just you,” she repeats dully. “Richie Tozier. My oldest friend. Convicted felon. The one and only reason I’m not rotting in a jail cell right now.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Oh, you would have been paroled way before now. You’re too pretty for prison.”

She pauses, like she wants to say something about that, then shakes her head. “Ben doesn’t know about you,” she admits.

Richie figured as much, but it still sort of hurts.

“You gonna tell him?” he asks.

She sighs. “Kind of have to, don’t I? I mean, no offense, but you kind of look like you just got out of prison.”

“I _did_ just get out of prison,” Richie says defensively.

She waves her hand. “It’s not just that.” She takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m going to tell him everything.”

It sort of feels like all the air gets sucked out of the room. “Everything?” he asks, cautiously, not sure they’re talking about the same thing.

She nods slowly. “Everything. About you. About us.” She looks down at her lap. “About what we did.”

He wishes she wouldn’t say it like that. He wishes she wouldn’t look so ashamed.

“You make it sound so serious,” he says. “It’s not like we killed anyone.”

“Just Georgie,” she murmurs.

“Hey.” Richie’s voice is so suddenly sharp that she looks at him, startled. “We didn’t kill Georgie.”

“We might as well have,” she says. “It was our fault.”

Richie wants to scream. He wants to take her by the shoulders and shake. He wants to punch one of her perfect white walls.

“Jesus,” he mutters instead, feeling itchy and cracked open. “I need a smoke.”

“You need some clothes,” Beverly says, and finally stands. She brushes past him and disappears into one of the rooms for a moment, then returns with a stack of clothes in her hands. “They’ll be too big, but at least you won’t be naked.”

“Is it too much for you?” he teases, and is so relieved when she cracks a smile.

“Yeah, Rich,” she says, voice deadpan. “You’re so sexy, I just can’t control myself.”

Richie takes the clothes from her, nodding firmly. “The words are right. We just have to work on your delivery.”

“Whatever you say,” she says, sounding warm and amused.

“Getting better,” he calls over his shoulder, returning to the bathroom to change. The shirt hangs off of him and so do the pants, which are too short, exposing his ankles, but they’re soft and clean and smell good.

“You look ridiculous,” Beverly tells him when he comes back to the living room.

“Ridiculously good,” he returns, striking a pose. She giggles, and then tries to smother the sound with her hand. Smiling, he sits next to her on the couch. She rests against him and lets her head fall on his shoulder, going quiet. They sit in silence for a long time, leaning together, lost in thought.

“Do you regret it?” she asks, after awhile.

He doesn’t need her to clarify. “Sometimes,” he admits. “Prison wasn’t exactly a five star resort, you know? But it wasn’t that bad.” He shrugs the shoulder she’s not propped on. “Three meals a day and a bed. For the most part, everyone ignored me. It was almost like being at home.”

He’s joking, but he feels Beverly cringe.

“Have you talked to them?” she asks, her voice quiet. “Your parents?”

“Mom visited a couple of times.” Less and less over the years. The last time was his thirty-third birthday. He’s thirty-four now. “They don’t know I’m out.”

“Does anyone?”

“Just you.”

“Not even…?”

“Bill?” Richie shakes his head, and his smile is unintentionally sad. He’s glad she’s not looking at him. “Haven’t heard from him since that day.”

“I told him what you said,” Beverly says, almost defensively. “That you didn’t want us to call or visit.”

Richie hums. “I don’t think he would have either way.”

“It was hard for him,” Beverly murmurs.

 _It was hard for all of us_ , Richie wants to say, but that isn’t fair. Beverly lost her best friends, Richie lost his freedom, but Bill lost Georgie. Richie knows very well which one of them got the short straw.

“You know what I want?” he says instead.

She looks up at him. “What?”

“Twenty-six slices of cheesecake.”

She laughs. “What is with you and exorbitant amounts of food?”

Richie pats his stomach. “I’m a growing boy.”

Beverly levels him with a flat look. “You’re thirty-four.”

“So are you,” he returns.

She groans, covering her face with her hand. “Don’t remind me.”

He tugs her hand down and looks at her then, almost as if for the first time. There are shallow wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, and an array of new freckles across her nose. For the most part, though, she’s the same as he remembers.

She looks so familiar that his chest aches.

It’s dangerous, being with her. It feels just like old times.

There’s an itch under his skin that he recognizes, but he ignores it. That’s not who they are anymore. That’s not what they do.

It doesn’t matter that Richie wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this got updated surprisingly fast. Apparently y'all motivate me. Thank you for the kudos and comments, xoxo.


	3. Bill

He’s asleep when she calls.

It’s late afternoon, or maybe early evening. The sunlight that bleeds in from behind the curtains is weak, already starting that early winter fade into dusk. Most people are ending their days. Bill Denbrough is just beginning his.

The number that flashes across the screen of his cell phone is unfamiliar. The area code is local, though, and he’s still hazy, half-asleep enough to answer without much thought. His voice is sleep-scratchy when he says, “Hello?”

“Oh, hi,” a female voice answers. She sounds surprised. “Um. Is this Bill Denbrough?”

“Yes…?” Bill rolls onto his back, legs tangled firmly in the sheets. He squints at the ceiling, one eye closed so he can rub the crust out of the corner. “Who’s asking?”

There’s a pause, just long enough for him to think the call has disconnected.

“It’s Beverly,” the voice finally says.

Bill thinks very seriously about hanging up.

“Beverly,” he says back, his voice flat.

She must think he doesn’t realize who she is, because she goes on, “Beverly Marsh. You know, the girl who lived down the street from you when we were kids?”

That’s an interesting way for Beverly to describe herself. Bill can think of a million other things she could have said to jog his memory – one in particular.

But maybe she’s trying to prove that they’re past all that. Bill can play along.

“I know who you are, Bev,” he says. He hesitates, then, not sure what to say. _What do you want?_ seems too abrupt, but it’s what he wants to know. He settles for, “How are you?”

“I’m good!” she says, too brightly. The Beverly he remembers only ever sounded so enthusiastic when they were planning to commit a crime. “Living the dream. I’ve got a pet goldfish, I’m working 9 to 5, and I’m getting married in November. You know how it is.”

Bill does not at all know how it is. He works night at a casino bar and his apartment is empty of all life except whatever might be growing in the garbage disposal. His last successful relationship was… well, Bill doesn’t think any of his relationships would count as successes. Most of them don’t last more than a night.

“Yeah,” he says anyway. “That’s great, Bev.”

“So?” she asks. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” he tells her, but doesn’t bother to go into detail because they both know that it’s a lie. She inhales like she’s going to say something else, then stops.

There’s an awkward silence.

“Beverly,” he says, and he sounds as tired as he feels. There is no room left for small talk. “Why did you call me?”

“I…” She starts, then stops again. “Well…”

Bill can be very patient when he wants to be. He waits.

“Richie’s out of prison,” she finally manages, sounding very small. Bill feels abruptly stupid. He really should have known.

“Did he call you?”

She hesitates, which means yes. Beverly has never been very good at lying.

“He didn’t have anyone else,” she says, sounding defensive. “He needed a place to stay.”

Bill is not nearly prepared enough to deal with this. He needs to sleep for another eight hours, or maybe another eight years. “You know why we’re not supposed to see each other, Bev.”

She makes an impatient noise. “He served his time. They’re not watching him anymore.”

“You’re not naïve enough to believe that, are you? He robbed a bank armed with an AR-15. No one is just looking the other way now that he’s out. If anything, they’re looking closer.”

“ _We_ robbed a bank, Bill,” Beverly says, and her voice is very quiet. Bill is long past believing their phones are tapped, but his heart jams up in his throat all the same.

“I can’t talk about this right now,” he says.

He almost manages to hang up the phone, but she cries “Wait!” and her voice is so frantic that he doesn’t quite manage to hit the red button. She must hear his hesitation, because she says, “I’m sorry.” She sounds less desperate but much more earnest. “I didn’t call to talk about that. Richie and I haven’t even talked about it.”

Bill finds that hard to believe. “He hasn’t roped you into another scheme yet?”

She kindly does not mention that it was all Bill’s idea to rob that bank. “Nope. All he has conned me into is a marathon of Grey’s Anatomy. Apparently they didn’t let him keep up with it in prison.”

Bill can’t help his grin. “So you’re telling me that you and Richie are together and managing to stay out of trouble? Because I find that very hard to believe.”

He’s only partly joking, but she laughs. “Believe it or not, the worst thing we’ve done is smoke a couple of bowls.”

Bill has a sudden flash of memory – the three of them, twenty years old, pressed closely together on his ratty sofa, passing a joint back and forth and back and forth, high and hazy. His chest aches.

Almost like she’s reading his mind, Bev’s voice goes soft and she says, “We miss you.”

He clears his throat, because if he doesn’t, he’s sure he’ll sound a little choked up. “I’ve gotta go,” he says, even though he doesn’t have to be out of bed for another couple of hours. “Take care of yourself, okay, Bevvy?”

“Yeah. You too.” She sounds small again. It doesn’t suit her. The Beverly he remembers was always loud and brash and strong.

He reminds himself that it’s been almost a decade, and this isn’t the Beverly he remembers, not really. For all intents and purposes, he’s talking to a stranger.

“And take care of Richie. God knows someone has to.”

She laughs, but it doesn’t sound very genuine. “I’ll do my best.”

He starts to hang up, then stops. “Hey, Bev?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss you guys, too,” Bill says, and then ends the call because he is not at all the brave boy she once knew.

The apartment is very quiet without Beverly’s voice in his ear.

He stares at the ceiling for a long time. At first, he tries not to think about the call, but it’s a lot like trying to keep his tongue from prodding the gap of a missing tooth. He keeps coming back to it, even though thinking about Beverly means thinking about Richie, and thinking about Richie means thinking about Georgie, and thinking about Georgie still fucking hurts.

He goes to work early, just for a distraction.

His job isn’t glamorous, but it pays the bills. Well, for the most part. Sometimes his fridge goes empty and sometimes he has to take the bus when he’s short on gas money, but so what? It’s like that for everyone these days. The economy, you know.

Bill likes it because he can get lost in it. The man at the end of the bar needs another Corona, and the blonde lady with the fake tits wants a mojito. Don’t talk to the big German man when you serve him a pint and he’ll tip $20. Talk to old window Mrs. Beringer over her glass of chardonnay and she’ll leave $100. It’s like a puzzle, one that Bill has worked hard to put together.

Bill likes puzzles. He likes figuring things out. It’s why he poured over blueprints for months before the robbery. It’s why he knew exactly which security cameras were real and which were just for show. It’s why he charted the exact escape route Georgie would drive after. It’s why –

He doesn’t realize he’s still thinking about it until Eddie hip-checks him on the way to the beer cooler. “You gonna stare into space all night, or are you gonna make some drinks?” he asks, somewhere between impatient and amused.

Eddie is a coworker, but he’s also a friend. Bill likes his attitude, the way he refuses to take shit from anyone, despite the fact that he’s maybe 5’6” and looks like a strong wind could knock him sideways. Plus, most of the time he stays late and helps Bill clean, even though his shift technically ends long before the bar closes. He claims that Bill just doesn’t do it right, but Bill privately thinks Eddie likes the company as much as he does.

“Sorry, man,” Bill says. “Got a lot on my mind.”

“Don’t think too hard,” Eddie says. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Bill laughs. “You’re an asshole.”

Eddie grins at him. “Been called worse,” he says, and disappears to the other end of the bar with two beers in his hands. Bill knows he’s not lying. Bill has heard some of the things people call Eddie. Sometimes guys come in, take one look at short, sweet-faced Eddie in his knee-high socks and short shorts, and refuse to let Eddie serve them, apparently afraid to ‘catch the gay’. Or, sometimes men come in specifically looking for a guy like Eddie, and get their feelings hurt when Eddie turns them down. Either way, it usually ends with the word _faggot_ getting thrown around. Eddie is used to it. Bill is not. He threw a guy out of the bar, the first time he heard it. That’s probably another reason why Eddie always helps him clean.

The shift does not go by quickly, but it does eventually end. Eddie turns the overhead lights on and turns the music off. It’s quiet in the bar, just Bill and Eddie and the quiet whisper of the broom bristles against the floor.

“So,” Eddie says, hopping up onto a bar stool to watch Bill sweep. “Wanna talk about it?”

Bill is not at all surprised Eddie has noticed something is wrong. He has always worn his heart on his sleeve.

“No,” he says, even though he kind of does. There’s a long silence, and then he pauses, looks at Eddie, and leans against the broom. “It’s a long story.”

Eddie shrugs. “I’ve got time.”

Bill doesn’t really think anyone has enough time for this particular story. “I did something bad,” he says, slowly, choosing his words carefully, “when I was a kid.”

Eddie laughs. “Didn’t we all?”

Bill smiles, but it probably doesn’t reach his eyes. “Real bad, I mean. Someone got hurt.” _My brother got killed_ , he almost says, but can’t manage it around the sudden lump in his throat.

Eddie stops smiling. Bill wants so badly to just tell someone that he doesn’t even care that this might be a bad idea.

“My friends and I robbed a bank.” And it’s such a relief to just say it. Bill realizes then that he’s never, ever said it out loud before. It makes saying the rest so much easier. “My little brother was our getaway driver. He got shot in the chest while we were trying to escape.” Eddie is staring at him, and his expression is blank, which is more encouraging than it probably should be. “Bev and I managed to get away, but only because our friend stayed behind and took the fall for us. He went to prison for eight years.” Bill rubs a hand over his face. “And now he’s out.”

Eddie blinks once, and then twice. “Holy shit,” he says finally.

“Yeah,” Bill says back, because there isn’t much else to say.

“Is the guy mad at you? Are you worried about him being out of prison?”

Bill shakes his head. “It’s not like that. I mean, I’m sure he’s pissed, but that’s probably because I haven’t talked to him in eight years.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “You let the guy take the fall for you and then ignored him for almost a decade? That’s cold, Bill.”

“I didn’t ignore him!” Bill argues, defensive. “We agreed not to talk. I mean, the cops knew he wasn’t the only person who robbed that bank. Talking to him was just asking for trouble.”

Eddie considers that, then nods. “Fair point. So what’s the problem?”

Bill sighs. “Apparently he’s staying with Bev.”

“The other accomplice?”

Bill grins. He’s never called her that before, and it’s kind of funny. “Yeah.”

“And you know this because…? I thought you guys weren’t talking.”

“Bev called me.” Bill looks down, pretending to be occupied with the broom. “I miss them,” he admits, which is the entire problem.

Eddie hums. When Bill looks at him again, he looks deep in thought. Bill assumes he’s considering the whole bank robbery thing, except Eddie opens his mouth and says, “I should have gone to jail when I was seventeen.”

And that… that is not at all what Bill expected.

“What?”

Eddie grins, like he’s pleased by Bill’s surprise. “I was driving 178 miles per hour in a 55.”

“Holy shit.” Bill tries to picture little Eddie Kaspbrak outracing a cop on some Maine backroad, and fails. “Why?”

Eddie shrugs. “I like to drive.”

He sounds a little bit like Georgie, and it makes Bill’s chest seize up. “What did you tell the cop?” he asks. “When he pulled you over.”

“I said what everyone always says,” Eddie tells him, grinning. “That I was late for work.”

Bill can’t help but laugh.

“How did you get out of it?” he asks.

“An overprotective mother,” Eddie says, “and a damn good lawyer.”

They share a private smile, the sort borne from sharing secrets.

Bill thinks that’s it, that maybe Eddie just wanted to spill his guts as badly as Bill did, but Eddie slides off the stool and approaches him.

“I’m not supposed to own a car that goes over 100 miles per hour,” Eddie says, his voice quiet and conspiratorial. He slides his keys out of his pocket, and Bill gets the feeling whatever he drives goes a hell of a lot faster than that.

“Remind me never to get a ride home from you,” Bill jokes.

Eddie laughs. “It would be the ride of your life,” he says agreeably. “Some of us never change.” He pauses, then looks up at Bill with huge dark eyes. He somehow manages to look both fiendish and wise. “Some of us do, though. Maybe you should give your friend a call.”

Bill shrugs, noncommittal. “Yeah, maybe.”

Eddie smiles at him, looking amused. “I really doubt he’s plotting some big heist, if that’s what you’re worried about. Poor guy’s been in prison for eight years. He probably just needs a friend.”

It really isn’t fair that Eddie doesn’t even know Richie and he still manages to guilt Bill about him. _Richie would like you_ , Bill thinks.

“Maybe,” he says again, but he doesn’t sound as unconvinced.

Eddie nods, and turns to leave. He gets to the door and pauses there, glancing back at Bill. Bill doesn’t know what he expects, but even Eddie’s mischievous smile doesn’t prepare him for Eddie to say, “And if it turns out he is planning another robbery, let me know if you guys need a driver. I know a guy.”

He disappears outside before Bill can respond. It’s probably a good thing, because Bill has no fucking idea what to say to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie wasn't supposed to show up for, like, four more chapters but Eddie Kaspbrak is my favorite son and I just can't help myself.


	4. Ben

Ben is tired.

It's late afternoon, crawling into evening. His flight from Chicago got in around three but traffic was bad, and his cab didn't pull up outside his apartment until closer to five. He's not entirely sure what time it is now, but it's probably too late for the cup of coffee he's sipping on. Not that it matters - it's still mostly full. He only poured it to keep his hands occupied.

Beverly sits across the table from him. Her hair is pushed off her face with a leather headband and her eyes are downcast. She's picking at a nick in the wood, her nails making a sharp splintery noise whenever she catches a loose edge. She hasn't looked at him in several minutes. He's almost glad. There was something strange about the way she greeted him, dull-eyed, smiling without meaning it. He doesn't want to see it again.

Beside her, between them, there's Richie. And that's... that's pretty much all Ben knows about him: his name. He's dark-haired and dark-eyed and there are dark tattoos all up and down his pale arms. He's been moving subtly for awhile now, his knee jogging up and down, his hands twisting together and then untangling, twisting then untangling, twisting then untangling. He has opened his mouth a few times, but has not said anything yet. The longer they all sit there in silence, the more uncomfortable Richie looks.

Ben wants, more than anything, to sleep. It's been a long week, and it's only getting longer.

"So," he says, then wishes he didn't, because both of them look at him and it's unnerving. He's the one who looks away this time, staring down into his untouched cream-white coffee. But there are no answers there, so he steels himself and meets Beverly's eyes instead. "Can someone please tell me what's going on?"

He expects Richie to explain, because he's been so clearly working up to it this entire time, but it's Beverly who speaks.

"I have a lot to tell you," she says, as if that isn't perfectly clear. She reaches across the table and takes his hand, and though Ben is incredibly confused about all of this, he's not at all confused about the way her hand still fits perfectly in his. He laces their fingers together without hesitation. This seems to bolster her confidence because she takes a deep breath and says, "Before I met you, I did something bad."

Richie makes a noise in his throat, somewhere between annoyed and amused. Beverly doesn't even glance at him, but Ben does. He's shaking his head. "Bev, stop making it sound so dramatic."

Beverly's eyes narrow, the way they always do when she's upset. Ben feels stupidly protective, like maybe he should tell Richie to back off, but that look shuts Richie right up.

Seemingly satisfied by the audible click of Richie's mouth closing, Beverly goes on. "We were twenty six years old, and pretty fucking dumb." She says this so matter-of-factly that Ben almost laughs. "We robbed a bank," she goes on, and suddenly Ben doesn't feel like laughing anymore.

There's a long, long moment of silence, and then Richie breathes out sharply through his nose, almost amused. "Way to ease him into it," he mutters. "What's your plan here, to give the poor guy a heart attack?"

Beverly ignores him, or maybe she doesn't even hear him. Her gaze is so intent on Ben that his skin prickles.

Ben opens his mouth, then closes it. Does it again. A third time.

"Say something," Beverly begs, but he doesn't know what to say.

"Maybe you should tell me the whole story," he manages finally, and his voice sounds weak even to his own ears. "From the beginning."

Beverly and Richie look at each other.

"The beginning," Richie repeats, voice lilting like it's a question.

"I don't think there is a clear beginning," Beverly says, slowly. "I've known Richie my whole life. Bill, too."

"Who's Bill?" Ben asks.

"Bill Denbrough." Richie's mouth twists, caught somewhere between a smile and a snarl. "That's a great start."

"Bill was our best friend, growing up," Bev explains. "It was a small town, so we all went to school together. We all lived on the same street. We did everything together. Hell, I lost my virginity to Bill in the ninth grade."

There's a pause, like maybe Bev didn't mean to admit that, and then Richie says, "Yeah, me too."

Beverly stares at him. Richie stares back. After a long few seconds, Richie smiles.

"I'm kidding," he says. "Bill is so straight I'm pretty sure he says 'no homo' before he touches his own dick."

Ben is suddenly, strangely grateful for Richie and his weird comic relief.

Beverly shakes her head, apparently deciding to ignore Richie. "Bill was with us," she goes on. "When we... you know."

"Robbed a bank," Ben supplies faintly. It feels kind of like he's in some strange alternate universe where his future wife is not sweet innocent Beverly Marsh but is in fact some criminal stranger.

"Can we rip off this Band-Aid?" Richie chimes in. "We robbed a bank. We got caught. Bill and Bev got away and I went to prison for eight years." He spreads his hands and shakes them jauntily. "Ta-da!"

"You forgot about Georgie," Bev says, her voice quiet.

"I didn't _forget_ about Georgie," Richie replies hotly. "I just thought maybe we were giving him the PG-13 version."

"He asked for the whole story."

Richie huffs. "Fine." He looks at Ben. "Bill's brother was our getaway driver. He got shot and killed." He looks back at Bev, almost defiantly. "Happy now?"

"I feel like I'm missing some pretty important details somewhere," Ben says, feeling sort of helpless.

Beverly rubs her hands over her face. "Richie, stop talking," she mumbles, and surprisingly, Richie does. She puts her hands back on the table, palms flat, staring at Ben with wide, worried eyes. "I'll tell you everything. Just promise me you'll listen."

Ben nods. He can do that. He's good at listening.

She tells the story in excruciating detail, pausing to answer his questions or to allow for Richie's commentary. By the time she's finished, it's very dark out and Ben's coffee is very cold. He dumps it in the sink and watches it circle the drain, deep in thought.

Beverly stands and comes up behind him but doesn't touch. Her face in the reflection of the window is pale and apprehensive. "I understand if you want me to leave," she says, voice very quiet.

Ben turns to face her. "What?"

She licks her lips and shifts her weight, not quite meeting his eyes. "If you want me to move out, I will. My aunt will probably let me stay with her, I just have to -"

Ben reaches out to take her tightly in his arms. He shushes her, his hand in her hair, cupping the familiar weight of her head. She all but collapses against him, her face against his neck. She shudders and he thinks maybe she has started to cry. "Of course I don't want you to leave," he tells her quietly. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she tells him, her voice very shaky. She has absolutely started to cry now.

Richie, still at the table, clears his throat. "Should _I_ leave, or...?"

"Shut up, Richie," Beverly says, voice wet and muffled against Ben's throat.

"Neither of you are leaving," Ben says firmly, looking at Richie over the top of Bev's head.

His face does something funny, like he's confused and pleased at the same time. "I can stay?" he asks.

"Of course you can." Ben smiles at him. "Any friend of Bev's is a friend of mine."

"Oh, _Benny_ ," Richie cries, his voice pitching high and dramatic. He flings himself out of his chair and across the room, hugging Ben around Beverly, squishing her between them. She laughs and swats at him blindly but without force. She doesn't push him away. The three of them stand there for a long time, intertwined in the middle of the kitchen.

"I have one condition," Ben says after awhile. "No more robbing banks."

Beverly goes sort of still, but Richie just laughs.

"I can't make any promises," he says and finally unravels himself from the embrace.

Ben doesn't know why, but he asks, "Would you? Do it again, I mean?"

Beverly and Richie look at one another.

"I don't know," Bev says.

At exactly the same time, Richie says, "Yes."

Ben nods slowly, considering that. "Okay."

Richie eyes him. "Okay?"

He shrugs. "Can't stop you, can I? Let me know if I can help. And no blood on the carpet."

Richie starts to say something else, but Ben interrupts him with a jaw-cracking yawn. He holds up a hand.

"I'm going to bed. Let's plan the crime of the century in the morning, yeah?"

And he's mostly kidding, but it's kind of funny, the way both of them stare after him, dumbfounded. Ben doesn't often say things for attention or cheap thrills, but it feels kind of good, knowing he's shocked them both.

He lies in bed for awhile, listening to the quiet murmur of Richie and Bev's hushed conversation in the other room, wondering how thrilling other things might be, things like skydiving or getting a tattoo.

Things like robbing a bank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So very sorry this chapter took so long. I was kind of taking an unofficial hiatus from writing, but then Den of Thieves came out on iTunes and I got inspired.
> 
> The next chapter is either Eddie or Mike. Which would you rather see?


	5. Mike

Of all the people Mike expects an _I need advice_ text from, Ben Hanscom is pretty close to the bottom of the list.

Ben, as far as Mike knows, is a pretty level-headed kind of guy, the sort to solve his own problems, usually before they start. He keeps mostly to himself. He spends almost all of his time working or with his fiancée, who Mike has never met but has heard a great deal about. In Mike's opinion, Ben is a good, quiet man. Mike has no idea what sort of advice he has to offer a guy like that.

Mike and Ben aren't technically friends, but Ben has been coming into the library Mike works at twice a week for nearly a year. They share a love of history and reading and peace. Ben's not much of a talker, but they've had more than a few conversations, usually in the hushed late hours close to closing time. Once, when Ben checked out a John Wayne Gacy biography, they spent nearly an hour discussing the fear of clowns and if Gacy was to blame or if clowns are just inherently creepy. They mutually decided on the latter.

They exchanged phone numbers awhile back, intending to get together for coffee or lunch, but Ben works a lot. Whenever Mike reaches out to him, he's always out of town, in Atlanta or Chicago or New York.

Not this time, though. Mike texts back that he's available to offer his advice, making sure to include a massive disclaimer that he's not responsible for whatever happens if Ben takes it. Ben asks to meet him at a coffeeshop just down the street from the library.

Mike shows up early, but Ben is already there. He waves at Mike from across the shop, looking exhausted and pale and anxious, his fingers rubbing aimless circles on the lid of his coffee cup. His forehead is deeply wrinkled, aging him about ten years. He looks better when he greets Mike with a smile, but it doesn't last very long.

"I would have bought you something, but I didn't know what you like," he says apologetically. Mike waves him off and sits down. He's not much of a coffee drinker in general, and Ben looks like he might burst if Mike makes him wait too long to spill his guts.

"You okay, man?" Mike asks. He gives the coffeeshop an exaggerated once-over, then leans across the table, dropping his voice. "If you need me to hide a body, I just have to run home and get my gloves."

He's trying to break the tension, but Ben doesn't even crack a smile. His expression sort of tightens, going a little panicky behind the eyes. Mike's stomach drops. He's suddenly sure that Ben actually has killed someone. _It's always the quiet ones,_ he thinks.

Ben must sense his discomfort, because he starts to shake his head. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to freak you out." He laughs, a little, and his face finally starts to relax when he rubs a rough hand over it. "I'm being so stupid."

Mike doesn't say anything, because he has absolutely no idea what's going on.

Ben takes a sip of his coffee, puts it down, and seems to steel himself. "It's Bev," he says.

All at once, the tension drains out of Mike. Of course this is about Beverly. He wants to laugh at himself for thinking Ben is capable of hurting a fly, much less a person.

"What about her?" he asks.

Ben sighs. "She... did something."

Mike nods, encouraging Ben to go on.

Ben taps a fast, nervous rhythm against his coffee cup, then lets go of it altogether. He's not looking at Mike anymore. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," he admits. "I mean, I like to think I'm a pretty good judge of character, but I totally understand if you run screaming."

Mike had kind of started to assume that maybe Beverly had cheated on him, or left him standing at the altar, but he's quickly realizing that is not the case at all. There's something going on here that makes the hair on the back of his hand stand on end. His mama always told himself to listen to his instincts, and his instincts have him fully on-edge. He briefly considers getting up and leaving Ben to whatever mess he's found himself in, but the poor guy looks so lost that Mike instead hears himself saying, "It's okay. You can tell me."

Ben takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. "Have you ever stolen anything?" he asks, and that's not at all what Mike expected.

"Once, yeah." Mike cracks a smile. "A candy bar from a drugstore. I don't think I'll ever forget that whooping."

Ben nods, seeming to contemplate that. "I've never stolen anything," he admits, and yeah, Mike could have guessed that.

"Are you planning to?" he asks.

Ben opens his mouth, then closes it, then changes the subject. "One of Bev's friends is staying with us."

Mike is struggling to keep up with this conversation. "Okay...?"

"His name is Richie," Ben says, his voice and eyes lowered. Mike is almost sure that's all he's going to say, but then he adds, "He just got out of prison."

"Oh." Mike considers that. "For stealing something?"

Ben looks at him, almost defiantly. "For robbing a bank."

Mike sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Wow." He pauses. "How much did he take?"

Ben blinks. "I... I don't know."

"That wasn't your first question?"

"Well, no. I didn't really think about the money."

"Oh, that's right, I forgot. You're a big-shot architect," Mike says, mostly teasing. "Some of us have to think about money."

Ben's eyebrows furrow together. "Do you need money? I could-"

Mike immediately holds up a hand. "Don't even offer. I'm fine."

Ben looks like maybe he wants to argue, but he doesn't. Instead, he says, very quietly, "I'm scared they're going to do it again."

"They?" Mike scrambles to keep up. Somehow, he can't quite grasp what Ben is trying to tell him. "Are you telling me your fiancée helped rob a bank?"

Ben's silence is answer enough.

"You've got to be kidding me," Mike says, sitting back in his seat.

"Please don't tell the police," Ben says in a rush.

Mike can't help but laugh. "Dude, that's the last thing I would do. I kind of want her autograph."

"Really?" Ben looks caught off-guard, which is sort of surprising, considering how guarded Ben has been about this entire conversation. "Why?"

"Well, how many people do _you_ know who have gotten away with robbing a bank?"

"Just one," Ben says, wryly. "There's another one of them, though. His name's Bill."

"Don't tell me he's moving in, too. Are you trying to start some sort of criminal halfway house?"

Ben laughs, almost helplessly. "No. He's in the city, though. Richie looked him up on Facebook. Apparently he works at that casino on Main."

Mike eyes him. "Are you gonna pay him a visit?"

Ben shakes his head. "I'm not. It's none of my business. Besides, Bev called him, and she says he's not very interested in seeing them. I doubt that will stop Richie, though."

"I would pay to see that reunion," Mike says.

"Not me," Ben replies, sounding very tired. "I hate drama."

Mike nods sympathetically. "I can tell. No offense, man, but you look like you haven't slept in two weeks."

"Feels that way," Ben mutters, taking a sip of his mostly untouched coffee.

Mike stands then and collects his coat from the back of his chair. He tugs it on as Ben watches. "Come on," he says. "You need a beer. Or hard liquor. Maybe both."

Ben sputters a little, looking at his watch. "It's noon!"

"Your future wife robbed a bank," Mike says, taking care to keep his voice lowered so Ben doesn't have a stroke. "Trust me, you get a pass."

Ben still hesitates, shifting uneasily in his seat.

"You asked for my advice," Mike reminds him. "My advice is that you hide under a booze blanket for awhile."

Ben looks like maybe he's still going to say no, but then he gives a mighty sigh and stands. "Alright," he says. "But the next time I think it's a good idea to ask your advice, remind me that you're a bad influence."

"Deal," Mike says, and leads him out of the coffeeshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Would you rather see Eddie or Mike?  
> Y'all: Eddie!  
> Me: Too bad you get Mike
> 
> This just fit better chronologically, I'm sorry!  
> Next is most likely going to be Stan, and then, in the chapter after that, the moment we've all been waiting for: Richie and Eddie meet. Just bear with me.


	6. Stan

It’s hot in the bedroom. He’s not even under the sheets and he’s sweating. His hair is matted to his forehead and when he touches his own thighs his hands slip on his skin. He lifts up onto his knees, drops down hard, tilts his head back and moans.

There’s an answering noise, somewhere between a gasp and a grunt, distant and unimportant. Bill is always kind of loud when they do this, and they do it often enough that his sounds have become more background noise than anything. If Stan had to choose between listening to him and looking at him, he’d choose the latter every time, because Bill, lying beneath him, stomach muscles bunched up tight, shattered-glass eyes open wide and hazy… He looks fucking _good_.

Stan thinks he could probably get off just like this, riding Bill slow, unhurried, staring at the spit-shine on Bill’s bitten-red mouth. He doesn’t even really need the hand that Bill wraps around his erection, but he pushes into it anyway.

He comes first, but Bill follows quickly, like maybe he was just waiting for Stan. It’s kind of considerate, in a stupid way. Bill’s like that. He makes Stan breakfast sometimes, and he kisses Stan on the mouth even after Stan has gone down on him.

They don’t do this often, but they’ve been doing it for a long time. Bill is a friend of a friend, one of the first people Stan met when he moved to the city. He was lonely, and Bill was gorgeous, and Stan had immediately recognized that secret dark-eyed stare Bill had given him the first time they were introduced. Bill had a girlfriend at the time, but when he called Stan a week or so later, husky and half-drunk, he hadn’t mentioned her. As far as Stan knows, they could be married by now.

He doesn’t think so, though. Bill’s apartment is somewhere in the awkward, unclean middle of bachelor pad and college kid on his own for the first time. Stan knows for a fact that Bill is in his thirties, but you wouldn’t know that by looking at his place. His apartment is sparsely decorated and mostly empty. The television is propped up on a milk crate, and the nightstand is a turned-over wastebasket. Stan mentioned the lack of furniture once, but Bill had shrugged it off, claiming he’s not home enough to notice. Stan believes him. He’s pretty sure Bill only comes home to sleep and to fuck him.

Bill lights a cigarette and smokes it in bed, the same way he always does. It bothered Stan the first few times, but he’s used to it by now. He doesn’t even really shift away, though they both know he’ll refuse to kiss Bill again. “Those things are going to kill you,” Stan says, mostly because the apartment is weirdly silent now without the soundtrack of sex.

Bill looks at him, then looks at the cigarette, then shrugs. “Worse ways to go,” he says. There is something haunting about his tone of voice. Bill is just like that. There’s always a shadow behind his eyes, something dark and sad. Stan privately thinks that’s why he fucks so good. The broken ones always do.

“Better not be soon,” Stan sighs, stretching out underneath the covers, cold now that the sweat has started to dry. “I need you.”

Bill blows smoke up at the ceiling, then grins at him. “You need me, huh?” He stubs out his half-smoked cigarette into an ashtray and turns to face Stan. His hand dips underneath the sheet and spreads flat on Stan’s stomach, low enough for the muscles to clench reflexively. “What do you need me for?”

There’s no possible way there’s going to be a round two, not for a couple hours, and Stan doesn’t have that kind of time. He has to work in the morning. It’s actually something of a miracle that they manage to sync their schedules up well enough to see each other. Bill was just waking up when Stan first got here, his eyes bleary and crusted, and Stan had just finished up his workday, deciding to take some of the mid-week stress out in Bill’s bed instead of alone in his place with a bottle of wine. He’ll be asleep by the time Bill starts his shift tonight, and Bill will be slinking back to bed around the time Stan’s alarm goes off.

He could find someone else, someone with a 9 to 5 like him, someone he could fall asleep with and wake up to. But there’s no one quite like Bill and Stan knows it, though he’d never admit it out loud, even under threat of death. They’re not like that. They don’t say things like that. They don’t even know each other, not really. Stan could describe Bill’s orgasm face in perfect detail if asked, but he couldn’t tell you Bill’s middle name.

The real problem is that Stan’s type is emotionally unavailable, and Bill is about as unavailable as it gets. He’ll answer immediately if Stan texts him for sex, but if Stan dares to ask him anything personal – even something like _how’s your day?_ – it’s radio silence for a week.

He jumps when Bill’s phone rings, loud and piercing. Bill takes his hand away from it’s slow descent down Stan’s body and fumbles it off the nightstand, squinting at the screen. The number is not saved, but the area code is local. Bill hesitates for the briefest second before he answers.

“Hello?”

Stan can hear a tinny voice say something unintelligible, then there’s silence for so long Stan is sure the call disconnected. When Stan looks at him, Bill has his eyes closed tightly, his forehead scrunched up like he’s in physical pain. Stan wants to touch him, but this is the exact kind of unfamiliar territory that Bill gets twitchy about, so he doesn’t.

“Hi, Richie,” Bill finally says. Stan has never heard the name before, but that’s not exactly surprising, considering all he knows (or, rather, all he _doesn’t_ know) about Bill.

The person on the other end starts talking again, rapid-fire. Stan can’t make out what they are saying, but he’s not listening very hard. He climbs quietly out of bed and starts to get dressed. Bill opens his eyes and watches him but doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bill finally tells the person on the phone. He sounds weary, his voice nothing like the open-warm way he’s been murmuring sexy things to Stan for the past hour. There’s a pause, and then: “Because that part of my life is over. I don’t want to see you.”

Ah. An ex, then. Stan really needs to get the hell out of here. He buttons his jeans and tugs his shirt over his head. He tries to comb his hair out of his face but it’s a lost cause, a tangled mess the way it is only after he’s been rolling around in the sheets with Bill for awhile. Bill stares at him the whole time, looking sort of distracted.

“We both need to move on,” Bill says. He sits up in bed, nodding his head in the direction of the sock Stan is searching for.

Stan stops listening to the conversation, then, until Bill’s voice goes suddenly sharp. “Do not come to the casino,” he’s saying, and he sounds angry. Stan has never heard him sound like that before. It’s somewhere between scary and sexy. “That’s my _job_ , Richie. You could get me in trouble.”

Stan is fully dressed now, and he’s hesitating at the doorway. He never leaves without Bill walking him out, without Bill kissing him slow and deep at the door, but Bill looks rather immersed in the phone call. And it’s not like he owes Stan anything, so Stan gives him an awkward smile and starts to see himself out.

He hears Bill say, “I have to go. If you show up where I work, I will punch you. You know I will, Richie. I’ve done it before.” And that’s a story Stan would be interested in, if he were sticking around. There’s a short pause, and then Bill says, “Better hope prison improved your right hook, then.”

Stan has so many questions, and he’s sure none of them will ever be answered. He’s just about to open the front door when Bill comes slamming out of his bedroom, dressed only in the pair of boxers that Stan stripped him out of earlier. “Wait!” he calls, and crowds Stan up against the door, his palms pressed flat against it so that Stan couldn’t open it even if he tried.

“That sounded important,” Stan says lightly, stupidly pleased about being boxed in by Bill’s strong arms. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“This is important, too,” Bill tells him, and kisses him, so long and deeply that Stan’s head goes sort of hazy. He clutches at Bill’s shoulders and sighs into his mouth, remembering too late that Bill smoked. He tastes like ash and it’s arguably disgusting, but the way Bill slots his knee between Stan’s and pins him there with his weight isn’t bad at all.

Bill always kisses like this, like he has something to prove, like he’s trying to convince Stan of something. Stan has no idea what it means, because as far as he knows he’s giving Bill everything that Bill wants from him. He would ask, but he’s sure that would fall under the category of things that would make Bill ignore him for a week.

Stan pulls back after awhile with a wet sound, his stomach so tight he’s sort of convinced Bill could take him apart again this soon. His eyes fall to a red place beneath Bill’s ear where Stan remembers sinking his teeth in. It’s already darkening into a bruise, and Stan is stupidly pleased by it. “Your boyfriend’s not going to like that,” Stan says without thinking, reaching out to touch the mark.

Bill stares at him, his expression blank. “Boyfriend?” Then understanding dawns. “Richie.”

Stan hums, prodding the bite, grinning when Bill shudders. “Should I be worried?” he asks, half-teasing. “He didn’t go to prison for murder, did he?”

Bill’s face flashes through about a thousand different emotions. He grabs Stan’s hand tightly, lowering it to his side. “No,” he says, shortly, and Stan is not at all convinced.

He’s sort of unnerved by the look on Bill’s face. That shadow is suddenly back, deeper and darker than ever. His eyes are dark and shuttered, and he looks very different from the sweet, open man Stan had between his thighs just a few minutes ago.

“Okay,” Stan says slowly, drawing out the vowels. “I’m gonna go.”

Bill looks like he’s not going to move for a moment, but then he does. He clears his throat and looks away. One of the things Stan likes about Bill is that things are never awkward between them, but that’s apparently about to change. Stan hesitates for the briefest second, hoping Bill will snap out of whatever the hell this is, but he doesn’t, so Stan tugs the door open.

He’s halfway down the hall when Bill calls his name. He turns to see Bill leaning up against the doorframe, his face pale and drawn. Now that he’s not in Bill’s space, he can see how bad Bill looks – like maybe he’s not sleeping well, like something is keeping him up at night. Stan wants more than ever to ask him what’s wrong, but he knows Bill wouldn’t tell him.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” Bill says, sounding somehow both weary and fond. He doesn’t say _I promise_ , but his tone does. He smiles. It almost reaches his shadowed eyes. Stan almost believes him.

Stan goes home and pours himself a glass of wine, then another, thinking of Bill the whole while. Stan thinks about Bill a lot, but the thoughts are usually intimate, involving Bill in some state of undress. Now, Stan is worried about him. It’s such a strange, new feeling that Stan goes to bed early, just to get Bill off his mind for awhile.

He almost expects to dream about Bill, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t expect to wake up to a text message from Bill, but he does.

_Sorry I made things weird,_ it says. _I’ve got a lot going on._

Stan responds, _You can tell me about it if you want to._

He does not at all think Bill will accept the offer, but about ten minutes later, his phone chimes. The message is a huge block of text, and it starts with _It’s about my little brother Georgie._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, what an awkward place to end this chapter, but I needed it OUT OF MY HEAD.
> 
> Next chapter is Eddie meeting Richie, and we all know you don't wanna miss that.


	7. Eddie

It’s just now going on eight at night, and the bar is next to empty. It’s those strange few hours after dinner when everyone is gearing up for a few late-night drinks. Eddie has stayed busy until now cleaning up from the earlier rush, but all the dishes have been washed and the floor has been swept, and he has wiped the bar counter three times already. It’s still an hour until the end of his shift. Bill would probably come in early if he asked, but Bill always looks a little overworked and underpaid, so Eddie will probably just stick it out.

He makes his rounds, cashing out the polite middle-aged regular, the one Eddie likes best because he never tries to make conversation. Eddie is spectacularly bad at small talk, always has been. There are two middle-aged ladies chatting at a nearby table, and they coo over him when he refreshes their wine glasses, giggling together when he finally escapes their clutches. They’re nice enough, but Eddie retreats to the safety of the bar as quickly as he can, embarrassed by the attention. In all honesty, he’s not suited for this kind of job: he’s not outgoing enough, he’s too uptight. But it pays the bills, and keeps him from crawling back home to live with his mother. So it works for now.

There’s only one other person in the bar left to check on, a dark-haired man in the corner who has been nursing the same beer for almost an hour. He’s been alternating between glancing at the door and staring at the countertop, almost like he’s waiting for something. He’s objectively kind of attractive, just the kind of rough around the edges that Eddie’s into, but Eddie very firmly does not mix business with pleasure, and so he is very professional about offering the guy another beer.

Well, in reality, he just taps the bar counter twice and gestures at the mostly-empty bottle, but usually that’s enough to get his point across. It does not usually startle anyone into almost toppling off their stool, like it does to this guy.

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” Eddie says, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The man recovers with a laugh that sounds like a cough, one hand on his beer bottle and the other on the back on his neck, like he’s embarrassed. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, and his voice is husky-deep, sort of unused-sounding. He clears his throat and gives Eddie an easy smile. His teeth are very crooked, but it overall serves to make him even more attractive. “Guess I got lost in my own head. It’s a pretty fucked up place, so thanks for the interruption.”

Eddie nods, not entirely sure what to say to that. “You’re welcome, I think.” He tilts his chin at the bottle the man has gripped between his fingers. “You want another one?”

The man looks at the beer like he forgot it was there. “Oh. Um, yeah, sure.”

Eddie fishes out a fresh bottle from the cooler and pops it open with the bar key he keeps tucked in his back pocket. The man watches him the whole time, which is sort of unnerving.

“What’s your name?” he asks when Eddie slides the new beer to him.

“Eddie,” Eddie says.

The man smiles again. “Thank you, Eddie.”

Eddie does not know what possesses him, but suddenly he hears himself ask, “What’s yours?”

The guy looks sort of surprised, then sort of pleased. “Richie,” he says, and holds his hand out. Eddie shakes it, very firmly refusing to think about how long Richie’s fingers are.

Eddie is sure they’ve never met, but something about Richie is familiar.

“Do you come in here a lot?” he asks. “I feel like I’ve seen you before.”

Richie’s grin goes sharp, sardonic. “I doubt it. I just got back into town.”

“Oh?” Eddie does not usually engage customers in conversation, but this guy looks lonely. He leans his elbows on the edge of the bar and props his chin on his fists. “Where have you been?”

Richie blinks at him, like he didn’t expect the question. “I, uh. Out of town.”

“Very specific,” Eddie says. Richie laughs, but doesn’t elaborate. “Can I guess?”

Richie lifts an eyebrow. “You want to guess where I’ve been?”

Eddie gestures around the bar, which is now empty except for the two ladies at the far table. “I don’t have anything better to do.”

Richie grins, small and amused. He leans back on the stool, like he’s settling in. “Okay. But you only get three guesses.”

“Deal.” Eddie taps his chin, pretending to think about it. He eyes Richie’s arms, pale skin made all the paler by a series of stark black tattoos. “Well, you definitely haven’t been anywhere sunny.”

“Hey!” Richie laughs. “Not all of us can be little sun-kissed Apollos.”

Eddie ignores him, mostly because he doesn’t know what to say to that. “And you’re really savoring that beer,” he says, nodding at the fresh bottle, which has gone untouched.

Richie takes a pointed sip. He swallows, then says, “Maybe I just needed an excuse to talk to the cute bartender.”

“You weren’t doing much talking before,” Eddie points out.

“Had to work up to it,” Richie says. “I’m shy.”

Eddie snorts. “Somehow, I don’t believe that.”

Richie’s eyes are warm and alight. “You always this mean to your customers, Eds?”

“Only the good-looking ones,” Eddie says without thinking. He’s promptly mortified, but Richie looks so surprised and pleased that it’s almost worth it. “Were you in Russia?”

Richie laughs out loud. “You don’t think they have beer in Russia?”

Eddie shrugs. “Don’t they drink vodka?”

Richie smiles like he can’t help himself, small and fond-looking. “I was not in Russia.”

“Damn.” Eddie drums his fingers against his lips thoughtfully, and does not miss the way Richie’s eyes follow the rhythm. “Ireland?”

Richie, still staring at his mouth, says, “So sorry ter let yer down, but oi wus not in Oirlan’.” His Irish accent isn’t actually half-bad, and it startles a laugh out of Eddie. Richie looks very pleased by that. “Last guess, love.”

Several things happen then, in very quick succession.

The kitchen door swings open and Bill enters the bar, coat slung over his shoulder. Richie sees him and sits up ramrod straight, his whole body suddenly a long line of tension. Eddie starts to call a greeting, but Bill looks past him at Richie and he stops short. Several different expressions flash across his face, all too difficult to name, before he finally seems to settle on anger.

"I told you not to come here,” he says, and he sounds _deadly_. The hair on Eddie’s arms stands on end, and he feels sort of trapped, even though Bill’s attention isn’t on him in the least.

Richie makes a noise that’s somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “What’s the matter, Billy? Not used to me not listening to you?”

Bill looks positively feral, baring his teeth in a nasty snarl. “Shut the _fuck_ up.”

Richie does not look at all intimidated. In fact, he looks sort of amused. He leans forward over the bar and bats his eyelashes. “Why don’t you make me? I know how much you like to be the big man in charge.”

Eddie has no idea what the fuck is going on anymore, but he sees the way Bill’s hands tighten into fists at his sides. There are about fifty cameras trained on the bar and a firm 100% chance of Bill losing his job if he decks a customer. Eddie knows Bill needs this job, and he also knows he doesn’t want to work nights if Bill gets canned, so he very pointedly clears his throat. “Hey, Bill.”

He thinks for a few long seconds that Bill is just going to ignore him. Bill is practically shaking, his entire body vibrating with hot angry energy. But then, just when Eddie is sure he’s going to say _fuck it_ and punch Richie’s lights out, he gives an angry huff and finally looks in Eddie’s direction. His nostrils are flared and there’s a furious red flush across his nose, but his eyes soften, just a little. “Hey, Eddie.”

Eddie has done this before: calmed Bill down. Bill’s first week on the job, he kicked a guy out of the bar for calling Eddie a faggot, and then spent the next hour ranting about it. Eddie had never before met someone who was so passionate, so willing to fight for him. It had been nice at first, but Bill’s mood had been sour the entire night and it was hard to work with him when he was like that, so Eddie had stayed long after his shift ended to talk Bill down. He’s done it several times since. He’s gotten good at it.

He’s never seen Bill quite this upset, though.

“That’s all it takes to cool you down these days?” Richie chimes in. “A cute boy saying your name? Man, you’ve gone soft.”

Bill’s shoulders bunch up, tight and tense. “Shut _up_ , Richie.”

And something about Richie’s name in Bill’s mouth loosens something in Eddie’s brain. Oh. This is Richie. This is _Richie_. Bill’s childhood friend. His accomplice. The guy who helped him rob a fucking bank.

Richie’s saying something else, but Eddie grabs Bill by the elbow when he starts to advance, drawn up and wild-looking. “Don’t be mad at him,” he says, thinking fast. “It’s my fault he’s here.”

Bill stops short. Richie does, too. They both stare at him for a long, quiet moment, broken only by the sharp laughter of the wine ladies.

"What?” Bill asks finally.

Eddie is both a fool and a liar, and this is not the first hole he’s ever dug for himself. “I invited him. Found him on your Facebook. I thought it would be good for you.”

Bill blinks at him. “You thought… inviting him here, to my job, would be good for me?”

Eddie smiles sheepishly. “I would have invited him to your house, but I don’t know where you live.”

“Plus he thought this would be safer,” Richie chimes in, gesturing at the ladies in the corner. “More witnesses, in case you tried to kill me.”

“I still might,” Bill mutters, but his shoulders are much looser. He’s never been mad at Eddie before, and he apparently has no plans to start now. “Listen, I get what you’re trying to do, but this really isn’t the place.”

Eddie nods, trying to look properly chastised. “I just wanted to help. You said you missed them.”

Richie inhales sharply. Bill is very stubbornly not looking at him. He looks like he’s struggling with himself, caught between the last vestiges of anger and the beginnings of sadness. “Go home, Richie,” he finally says, and he sounds very tired. “I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” Richie says. His voice is lilting, like maybe it’s a joke, but his eyes are very serious.

Bill finally looks at him. “Never lied to you before, have I?”

Richie opens his mouth, then closes it, then nods. He climbs off his stool and fishes out his wallet, tossing a $20 bill onto the counter. “Keep the change, Eds.” He gives Bill one last, long look, then gives Eddie one last, longer look, and then starts to walk away.

“Wait!” Eddie calls. “I didn’t get my last guess!”

Richie turns around, walking backwards towards the door. He’s grinning. “Doesn’t count. You cheated.”

“I can’t cheat if there aren’t any rules,” Eddie argues.

“ _God_ , you’re cute,” Richie says. He gives a two-fingered salute and then shoulders open the door, disappearing outside. Eddie stares after him.

“Please do not fuck Richie,” Bill mutters, suddenly in his ear.

Eddie makes an offended noise and swats him away. He throws Richie’s unfinished beer away, then starts wiping off the bar where he sat, glancing at the door one more time, then twice.

The third time, Bill groans. “He’s not coming back, Eddie.”

Eddie turns on him. “Aren’t you worried about him?” he demands. “Where’s he gonna go?”

Bill shrugs. “Probably back to Bev’s.”

“How far is that?”

“I don’t know, Eddie.”

“Does he even have a car?”

“I don’t _know_ , Eddie.”

“What if he’s walking? What if he takes the _bus_? Do you know how many diseases you can get from public transportation? You’re practically paying to catch the _plague_ , it’s—”

Bill rolls his eyes. “Look, if you’re so worried, why don’t you go after him?”

Eddie pauses. “What? No. I’m on the clock.”

Bill gestures to his watch. “Your shift’s over.”

Well, he has a point. It’s 9:02. “I still have to count the register.”

Bill gives him a pointed look. “I’ll hold your tips for you. Just go.”

Eddie eyes him suspiciously. “Why? I thought you weren’t worried about him.”

“Yeah, but you are.” Bill shrugs again. “You’re the one who said he could use a friend. Better you than me.”

And Eddie… well, Eddie doesn’t have an argument for that. He puts the rag down. “Are you sure?”

Bill smiles. “I got this.”

Eddie hugs him after only the briefest hesitation. Bill leans into it, like maybe he’s a little touch-starved.

“Thanks, Bill,” he murmurs. He collects his things and starts out the door, pausing only when Bill calls his name. Bill looks suddenly serious again.

“There is one condition. If you fuck Richie,” he says, voice flat, “I do not want to hear about it.”

Eddie flips him off and leaves before Bill can see him blush.

It’s not actually that hard to find Richie. Eddie was right: he’s heading in the direction of the nearest bus stop, which is about a half-mile from the casino. He’s got his hands tucked deeply into his jacket pockets and his head’s down, his hair hanging over his forehead. Eddie rolls to a stop beside the curb and rolls the window down. “Hey there, stranger.”

Richie stops short, squinting at him like maybe he thinks he’s imagining things. “Hey yourself,” he says, his voice soft and surprised.

“Want a lift?”

His mouth quirks into a crooked grin that has no business being so sexy. “Depends. You gonna let me pay you back for it?” And he slides his tongue over his teeth very slowly.

Eddie very stubbornly refuses to be aroused by that. “Just get in, pervert.”

It’s sort of funny, watching Richie fold his long legs into Eddie’s car. He looks cramped up in the front seat, even when he levers it back as far as it will go. Despite this, he sounds serious when he says, “Nice ride.”

Eddie is very proud of his car. It’s a 1993 Pontiac Firehawk, only about five years younger than he is but still running just fine. Eddie spends most of his time off fixing her up. He just touched up the cherry-red paint job the weekend before, and replaced the brakes the week before that. He’s not technically supposed to own a car that goes from 0 to 60 in five seconds flat, but Richie doesn’t have to know that.

“Thanks,” he says. He steps on the clutch and shifts into gear, looking sideways at Richie. “You might want to put on your seatbelt.”

Richie smirks. “I’m good. I live for danger.”

Eddie smiles to himself. “Suit yourself.” He puts his foot on the gas and shifts into second gear, then quickly into third. In the three seconds it takes him to shift into fourth, Richie is grabbing for the seatbelt. Eddie flashes him a triumphant grin. Richie looks caught between terror and awe, his hand white-knuckled on the belt strapped across his chest, the open window whipping his hair wild. Eddie wants to see just how disheveled he can get. He shifts into fifth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say sorry that this took so long, but y'all knew it was gonna.
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://oldspicehanlon.tumblr.com), I'm actually active there these days.


	8. Richie

"You should have seen him, Bev," Richie says.

He's standing at the kitchen sink, scrubbing out his cereal bowl. Beverly is surprisingly stern about washing dishes immediately after using them. It's something Richie doesn't remember from Before. He's half-sure she used to be just as bad as him and Bill about overflowing the sink. But that was a lifetime ago, and Richie is trying very hard not to argue with her. So he does the dishes.

Beverly, sitting at the table with her head bent over a magazine, gives a noncommittal hum.

"I'm serious," Richie says, not at all discouraged by the fact that she is obviously uninterested. "It was so cool. I've never seen someone drive that fast."

Bev hums again.

"And he was so cute!" Richie goes on, running the soapy bowl under the tap. "You remember that tabby we found under Bill's porch when we were kids?"

Beverly finally looks up. "The little orange one?" she says, squinting like she's trying to picture it. "Yeah, he was -"

"Eddie was  _cuter_ than that," Richie cuts in.

Beverly pauses, looks like she's considering saying something, then looks back at her magazine.

Richie is undeterred. "And he was funny! And really nice. He didn't have to pick me up, you know? He could have let my ass walk. God knows Bill was going to."

"Bill was working," Bev says absently, casually defensive the way she always used to be when Richie was mad at Bill, or the other way around. It had never happened often, but those few times had always been explosive. Bev was a good mediator, mostly because she refused to take sides. Or, rather, she was always on the side of the underdog. Bill could call Richie a selfish dumbass and Bev would tell him off, and then she would turn right around and yell at Richie for calling Bill an egotistical fuckwad.

"So was Eddie," Richie replies cheerfully. "I love a man who works."

Bev sighs, then, and closes her magazine. "Richie," she says, her voice carefully patient, like maybe she's about to punch him. "I'm so glad you met the love of your life, but it's all you've talked about for three days. There are more important things happening right now."

More important than Eddie? Doubtful. "Like what?"

Bev looks at him, then looks away, sort of shifty-eyed in a way that makes Richie nervous. "Bill's coming over," she says.

There's a sudden silence, so absolute Richie's ears feel like they need to pop. "What?" he says after several long seconds. He had to have misheard her.

"Bill," she repeats, crystal-clear, "is coming over."

Jesus Christ.

"When?" he demands. Maybe there's time to escape. Maybe there's time to hide. Maybe there's time to run out and do something stupid and get himself locked up for another almost-decade.

The doorbell rings.

Richie looks at Bev, who studiously does not look back at him. "You're a bitch," he informs her.

It's not that he doesn't want to see Bill. Well, actually, he  _doesn't_ want to see Bill, but that's only because Richie has no idea what to say to him.

Bill had called, like he promised he would, the day after their confrontation at the casino bar. The conversation was stunted, awkward, mostly silence. Beverly and Richie had hunched together on the couch, her phone on speaker but turned down, like she didn't want the empty apartment to hear all the sordid details. Not that there were any sordid details. Bill very sternly did not talk about That Day.

They caught up, sort of. Bev had a nervous habit of talking fast, and she spilled out eight years in a matter of minutes. Bill took longer, voice slow, stumbling over only a few words. His stutter was better. Almost gone entirely. Had he worked on it? Had it fallen off with age? Richie wanted to know, but he didn't want to ask.

And then Bill had asked, "What about you, Rich? What have you been up to?" Like they were old college friends making small talk. Like Bill didn't know exactly what Richie had been doing for eight years.

"Oh, you know," Richie had said, unable to help himself, his voice falsely cheerful. "Nothing much. Got a few new tattoos. Ate three square meals a day. Rotted away in a six by eight concrete box."

The conversation, already stiff, had devolved from there. Richie and Bev had hung up not long after, and Bev had elbowed him in the ribs. "What did you say that for?" she demanded, huffy and hurt. "He was trying."

"All he's trying to do is pretend nothing happened," Richie had said back. "I'm not going to live in his fucking fantasy world. If he wants to pretend, that's on him. But keep me out of it."

Richie had decided he had no interest in ever seeing Bill Denbrough again.

And now Bill is knocking at the front door.

"Don't be mad at me," Bev says, and she disappears before Richie can find the words to explain just how much he's never going to talk to her again.

Richie stubbornly stays in the kitchen. If Bill wants to pretend, fine. Richie can pretend, too. He can pretend Bill's not even there. He finishes washing his breakfast dishes with more force than necessary, slamming them into the drying rack. It's surprising that they don't break. Wouldn't that be something? Richie Tozier, violent convicted criminal, unable to control his temper. What would Bill have to say about that?

Because Beverly is evil, she leads Bill straight into the kitchen. Richie doesn't turn around, but his hackles rise. He can tell Bill's looking at him. Even after all this time, he knows exactly how it feels to have Big Bill Denbrough's eyes on him.

Nobody says anything.

Richie keeps expecting Bev to break the awkward silence, the way she usually does. Or maybe Bill will. He's usually leading the charge, steering the conversation. But neither of them say anything.

Oh, those fuckers. They know how much Richie hates silence.

For his part, he lasts longer than they probably expect him to. He stands there, lips firmly sealed shut, for at least three whole minutes. He's trying to figure out an escape route. He could go to his room, but Bill would probably follow him. He could jump off the balcony, but Bev would never forgive herself. He could keep up the silent treatment, but, well. He's never been good at that.

"You here to cause a scene?" he finally asks, turning around, leaning back against the counter. "Cause if so, I'd like to point out that I know where all the sharp objects are and you don't."

Bill doesn't look very intimidated. But he also doesn't look very intimidating, his eyes big and liquid-blue. "I'm not going to cause a scene," he says.

"Are you here to pretend nothing happened?" Richie demands.

Bill blinks at him. "I'm here to apologize," he says, very slowly.

Oh. That's... not at all what Richie expected. He opens his mouth, closes it, then makes a mute gesture for Bill to go on.

Bill looks at Bev, then down at the floor, then directly at Richie. He's never been a pussy about eye contact, even when he's uncomfortable. Richie respects him for that, even now.

"Rich," he says, and it's been so long since Bill's voice has called him that. Richie's shoulder jerks, a reflexive flinch. "I'm sorry."

Richie stares at him. Bill stares back.

"Is that it?" Richie asks finally.

Bill nods.

"That is a shitty apology," Richie says.

"Yeah," Bill agrees. "But I mean it."

Well. Maybe that's a good point. Maybe Richie doesn't need fancy, frilly words. Maybe he just needs those two and that open, painful honesty in Bill's eyes.

"You're a jackass," he says, and then he takes three steps across the kitchen and pulls Bill into his arms.

They hug for a long time. Bill clutches the back of Richie's shirt, and Richie fits his hand around the back of Bill's neck. Bill smells good. Not like he used to, though. It's a different cologne. It's a different man. Richie doesn't really know this stranger in his arms. He wants to, though.

After awhile, Bev worms her way into the hug, pushed in close up against their sides. She kisses Richie's shoulder and Bill's temple. "I missed you guys," she tells them, voice quiet and shaky. "I missed you both so much."

Neither of them say it back, but maybe they don't have to. She probably already knows. Bev knows everything. She always has.

They slowly pull apart. Bev's breathing is shallow and shaky. Bill sniffs, quietly. Richie clears his throat. They don't look at each other for awhile, giving each other privacy to pull it together.

"I'm gonna make some coffee," Bev finally says.

"Could you spike mine?" Richie jokes.

Bill looks at him. "Are you allowed to drink?" he asks.

Richie doesn't really know how to answer that. "I'm a free man." He holds his hands out, exposing his wrists to Bill. "Nobody's cuffing me anymore unless I ask 'em to."

Bill smiles, looking sheepish. "God, sorry. That was probably a dumb question. I, uh. Don't really know how it works."

_You wouldn't_ , an evil, angry part of Richie thinks.  _You didn't serve a goddamn day._

Which isn't fair. Richie served eight years so Bill didn't  _have_ to.

"Let's just say I can do whatever I want," Richie says. Then he pauses, pretending to think about it. "Well, within reason. I'm still not allowed to rob banks."

Bill's shoulders get tight. Bev cuts Richie a sharp look. The anger rises in Richie's throat again, hot and vicious.

"So this is what we're doing?" he demands. "We're just gonna ignore it?"

"We're not ignoring anything," Bev says. Her voice sounds soothing, and when she presses a warm mug of hot coffee into his hands, she brushes her fingers over his knuckles. "Bill's here to talk. Isn't that right, Bill?"

Bill doesn't look very happy about it, but he nods.

"You just have to understand that not all of us can be as casual about things like you," she continues, looking up at Richie. "We've spent eight years trying not to think about it."

"And I've spent eight years unable to do anything  _but_ think about it," Richie says back, his voice edged with steel. "Forgive me for not being very sympathetic."

"Richie." Bill sounds suddenly very tired. "Please. I don't want to fight with you."

_You don't want anything to do with me,_ Richie thinks.  _You already proved that._

Bill stares at him. "I'm here because I want to fix things," he says, like he knows what Richie is thinking. "I'm here because I want to make things right."

"Things are never going to be  _right_ ," Richie says. "This isn't a Hallmark original."

Bill looks like maybe he wants to argue, but then, inexplicably, he starts to smile. "You're right," he admits. "We're a little more Netflix, don't you think?"

"Us? Are you kidding?" He points a finger at Bill's chest. "We're late-night HBO, and don't you forget it."

And then they're both grinning.

"Now that we're playing nice," Bev says, "maybe we should sit down."

So they all sit down around the kitchen table, sipping coffee like adults. It's so strange to look across the tabletop and see Beverly Marsh, a grown woman, her hair shorn short, shallow laugh lines framed around her eyes. It's even stranger to look at Bill Denbrough, who is both everything and nothing like Richie had expected. He didn't have much time to really process it at the casino, and his thoughts afterwards had been swept up in a wave of Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, but now... Now he's looking at Bill up close and personal and it's... it's  _weird_. Bill has always been handsome, but no longer in a playful, childish way. He's serious-looking, his face drawn, purplish smears beneath his eyes like he doesn't sleep much. Maybe he lies awake at night thinking about Richie. About Bev.

About Georgie.

Richie opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn't want to ruin this fragile, tentative thing they've got going by dropping the G-bomb. But he needs to know.

"Bill," he says. His voice is quiet, and something flashes across Bill's face. Richie shouldn't still be able to read his expression, but he can.  _Don't ask_ , Bill is thinking.  _Please don't ask_. So Richie wavers and then says, lamely, "Are you okay?"

Bill's shoulders visibly unclench. Richie realizes for the first time just how fucked up Bill has to be. Sure, Richie was in prison for eight years, but so was Bill - a prison of his own making, guarded by a gap-toothed boy who will never, ever grow any older.

"No," Bill says honestly. His voice is choked up, wet-sounding. "I'm not."

"Me either, man," Richie admits. It feels kind of good to say it out loud. He's so used to being the jokester, the comic relief. But he's never had to be that for Bill. Just like Bill has never had to be strong for him.

Richie doesn't know which of them starts to cry first, only that they all end up wet-faced and sniffling.

"I'm sorry," Bill says. He reaches across the table and takes Richie's hand, holding it in both of his own. He is unashamed of his tears, staring at Richie through them, his eyes shimmering bright underneath the florescent kitchen light. "I'm so sorry."

Richie squeezes his hand. "Don't be," he says. "It's not your fault."

Bill goes stock still. His entire body jerks up taut, and then slowly, slowly, slowly starts to relax. His hands go limp, and then his arms, his chest, his shoulders. His expression crumbles and his neck gives out and then he's staring down at his lap, but not before Richie sees that he has started to cry harder, so hard he's trembling.

Richie wonders how long Bill has been waiting to hear that. How long he has needed someone to assure him that he isn't to blame for everything.

Richie says it again. Then again, then again. And then Bev says it, too, putting her hand over theirs, all three of them linked together again, like nothing has changed. Like everything has changed.

It takes a long time for them all to stop crying. Bev never used to be much of a crier, but she's the last to dry her eyes. Her makeup is a lost cause. Richie still thinks she's beautiful, and he tells her so. Her laugh is shaky but genuine. He leans over and cups her face in his hands and wipes mascara off her cheeks. Then he stands up and crosses to the other side of the table and puts his hand on Bill's shoulder, standing over him.

"I love you, man," he says.

Bill looks up at him, then stands suddenly and pulls Richie into another long hug. "I love you, too," he mutters into Richie's ear. And then he pushes Richie away altogether and says, "But you're a fucking  _punk_ , you know that? I still can't believe you showed up at my job."

That reminds Richie.

"Hey, about that, I meant to ask you-"

"I'm not giving you Eddie's phone number," Bill says flatly.

Richie raises his eyebrows. "His phone number? Dude, I've been texting him nonstop for three days."

"And I've had to hear every detail," Bev chimes in. She sounds both fond and exasperated. "Eddie did this, Eddie said that. I'm about to start planning the wedding."

"Bev,  _please_." Richie holds up a placating hand. "Let me buy the ring first."

"I feel like this is moving awfully fast," Bill says.

"Yeah, well, I missed out on eight years of my life," Richie says back. "Got a lot of catching up to do."

There's a weird silence that lasts a handful of seconds. Richie gets the feeling it's always going to be like that when makes a prison joke. He's gotta learn not to take it so personally.

"Speaking of weddings," Bill says finally, and he turns to Bev, taking her left hand. He picks it up, and her huge diamond ring catches the light. "Don't think I haven't noticed this."

Bev beams. "Real upgrade from the Ring Pops you losers used to shove on my fingers, huh?"

"More expensive than a Ring Pop, that's for damn sure." Bill tilts her hand this way and that, and then gives a low whistle. "Does your fiancé mine diamonds for a living or something?"

"Ben's an _ar-chi-tect_ ," Richie says, bouncing his eyebrows in time with each enunciated syllable. "And before you ask, he's not interested in having another sugar baby. I already asked."

Bill looks around, like maybe he missed Ben on first glance. "Is he here?"

"He's on business," Bev says. "Flew out last night."

"Bev has a bad habit of bringing strange men into the apartment when he's gone," Richie tells Bill in a conspiratorial whisper. Bev hits him on the shoulder. He'd never admit it, but it fucking hurts.

"Well, I'd like to meet him," Bill says. The three of them pause, letting that settle. Bill wants to meet Ben. Bill wants to come back.

"Okay," Bev says. Her voice does not sound very strong.

Richie claps his hands together. "No more crying!" he insists.

"No more crying," Bill agrees. His face sort of falls, though, and he scratches the back of his neck. "I, uh. I did want to talk about something, though."

Uh oh. Bev and Richie share an uneasy glance. Bill hasn't been back long enough for them to know exactly what that means, but they both remember that it never meant anything good Before.

"Maybe I should sit down," Richie says. "In case my delicate heart can't take it." He's angling for a joke, but Bill doesn't crack a smile. Richie returns to his seat.

Bill doesn't say anything for a minute, staring at the tabletop, then he pushes out a sharp gust of air through his nose and spits out, "I told someone." He lifts his eyes and looks at Richie first, then Bev. "About, you know. What we did."

Oh. Is that it? Richie had already assumed that.

"You told Eddie," Richie says, nodding. Eddie hasn't come out and said anything about it to Richie, but they both know he knows.

Bill pauses. "Okay," he says, slowly. "I told two people."

Bev makes an incredulous noise. "Are you serious? I didn't tell anyone for  _eight years_ because  _you_ told me not to."

"You told Ben," Richie points out.

Bev glares at him. "Shut up, Richie."

Richie shuts up.

Bill looks a little helpless. "I shouldn't have," he says. "I know that. But I needed to get it off my chest."

"Who did you tell?" Richie asks.

Bill considers the question. "His name is Stan," he announces finally. "He's my friend." There's something interesting about the way he pronounces  _friend_ , but Richie doesn't have time to comment on it because Bill makes a hurt noise in his throat and looks up with round, sad eyes. "He, uh. He didn't take it well."

Richie looks at Bev. She looks back at him. Her face is suddenly white and terrified.

"Do you think he's going to report you?" Richie asks slowly.

"No," Bill says immediately, then hesitates. "I don't know."

"You don't _know?"_ Bev repeats, her voice sharp. "How well do you know this guy?"

"We're, uh. We're close." Close. Richie remembers that, remembers Bill in high school, Bill who was  _close_ with Lily Howard, who was  _close_ with Rachel Kretzmann, who was  _close_ with Bev that one awkward week in freshman year. Bill is fucking Stan. Richie is gonna need a minute to process that when he's not concerned that his friends might be about to face jail time.

"What did he say?" Richie asks.

"That's the thing," Bill says. "He didn't say anything. Which is weird for him. He always answers my texts."

"Wait," Bev says. "You told him in a text?"

Bill pauses. "...yes?"

Bev stares at him. "You told someone... that you  _robbed a bank_... over  _text_?"

It would be objectively funny, except Richie's heart is hammering in his throat. "What did you tell him, exactly?" he asks.

Bill doesn't say anything for a long minute. "Everything," he finally says. Then he finally zeroes in on Bev's panic-stricken expression and starts talking, fast, stumbling over his words a bit. "Not about you! I didn't tell him about you. I mean, I muh-might have said your name, but how many Beverlys are there in the world? In Maine, even? And it's not luh-like they can do anything to you, Rich."

Richie is not at all concerned about himself. "Bill," he says, his voice even and very calm. "If something happens to Beverly because you couldn't keep your mouth shut, I will kick your ass."

Bev puts a placating hand on Richie's wrist. "That's not necessary," she says, and then looks at Bill. "If something happens to me because you couldn't keep your mouth shut," she says, " _I_ will kick your ass."

"I'll let you," Bill mutters. He looks thoroughly dejected, his head hanging down. Richie kicks him under the table.

"Stop moping," he says. "We'll figure it out."

Bill looks up. "How?" he asks. It's somewhere between a challenge and a plea.  _Fix this_ , his expression says.

Richie almost fumbles. Bill has never needed him to fix anything before. Bill has always been in charge, has always run the show, has always guided the reigns. And Richie has always been his second in command, never the head of the charge but always only a half-step behind.

But that was when they were kids.

They aren't kids anymore.

"I'll talk to Stan," he decides.

"That," Beverly says, "is a terrible idea."

Richie looks at her. "You got a better one?"

Surprisingly, she nods. "We need to call Ben," she says, and she starts to stand.

Bill catches her wrist. "Your fiancé? How's he going to help?"

"Ben will know what to do," she says. She sounds so confident that Richie believes her. Bill must believe her, too, because he lets her go. She scurries out of the room, picking her phone up off the counter as she goes.

Richie and Bill stare at each other in the ensuing silence.

"Do you ever get the feeling that everything is about to go so wrong?" Bill asks after awhile.

Yeah. Richie knows that feeling well.

Beverly passes by the kitchen doorway, speaking in a low voice into her phone.

"Help us, Obi-Wan Benobi," Richie mutters. "You're our only hope."

Bill blinks at him. And then he chuckles. And then he laughs. And then, suddenly, they're both laughing together, loud and boisterous and untamable. It's a crazed sort of laughter, panic-fueled, halfway to hysterics. Beverly finds them collapsed together against the table, still trembling with mirth, tears in their eyes.

"Ben has an idea," she tells them, ignoring their residual amusement. "But you're not going to like it."

They sober up fast after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me to update faster on [tumblr](http://hanscom.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> Do I actually have the time to start a fic of this magnitude? No. Do I know if this fic will be updated regularly? No. Am I sure there's any interest? No.
> 
> But obviously, I'm posting anyway. We'll see where this goes.


End file.
